


Wolf's Clothing

by FieryPen37



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Belle Being Awesome, F/M, First Time, Smut, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle finds her way home after her adventures, smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf's Clothing

Wolf’s Clothing

 

 

Releasing Phillip from his curse had pressed on an old wound, a cherished, hated memory of a fragile kiss. Another beast . . . _her_ beast.

“I have another beast to face,” she said, bidding them goodbye.

From the crest of the hill, Mulan’s village glittered with the lurid shine of their red paper lanterns—lanterns painted with the calligraphic symbols for protection, the fussy scholar in her mind piped. No home could be found there for her. No, her home was a castle that was anything but dark, with a master who was anything but a monster. Belle swallowed the knot in her throat, a surge of hot, painful hope swelling beneath her breastbone.

“I’m coming back, Rumple,” she whispered to the soft caress of the night breeze.

“Isn’t that sweet? Fighting for True Love, even to the bitter end.”

The dry, drawling voice held none of its previous false sweetness. Belle turned, her hand on the hilt of her dagger, and beheld the queen in all of her audacious splendor, with her dripping red smile and her dark, broken eyes. Bitter, howling hate roared in Belle, ready to sink teeth into the queen – ready to rip Belle apart as well. Together they had torn asunder something precious. The queen’s insidious words preyed Belle’s own impulsive nature.

“How did you find me?” she asked, a wary glance confirming three mounted soldiers and gods, a _cage_? Phillip and Mulan were beyond earshot. If she bolted into the thick brush, perhaps she could evade them . . . Beneath the brim of her elegant hat, the queen simpered.

“You really should be kinder to your traveling companions. Isn’t that right, Claude?”

A curt signal from the queen and two of the men swung down from their mounts, approaching her with knives drawn. Belle felt a moment’s passionate terror and thrust clumsily at the first man. He disarmed her with a swat of a mailed hand; the second man twisted her arm behind her back. Hot pain wrenched a cry from her and she fell to her knees. Panic lodged in her throat. Before her yawned a future of darkness, pain, and isolation, unless . . . she straightened her spine, glaring into to the queen’s eyes. _I’ve taken the measure of you,_ Belle’s look said, _and found you wanting._  

“Such hostility, your Majesty. And so unnecessary,” Belle said with a thin smile. Gods, her _arm_ , the bones were _screaming_ . . . The queen frowned, leaning back in her saddle with the squeak of well-oiled leather. She raised a finely shaped brow.

“Oh, and why is that?” Beads of sweat popped on Belle’s brow, stinging the corners of her eyes.

“We seek to accomplish the same purpose,” Belle said, a tremor running beneath the words. The queen uttered a throaty laugh.

“I doubt that,” she said, then to one of her men, “Enough of that, Horace. We can’t break our toy too soon, hmm?” The immutable grip on her arm loosened and Belle sagged a little, a metallic taste in her mouth. She held her nerve and the queen’s eye, daring the older woman to discredit her.

“Have you ever been in love, your Majesty?” she asked. A change settled over the queen; gone was the sneering, malevolent being. In an instant, Belle glimpsed in the queen’s place the wide dark eyes of a desolate soul, a yawning grief. Belle recognized it as a look she had worn with each step away from the Dark Castle, and found she could no longer hate the other woman.

“Yes. Once.” Belle let some of her steely mask fall away and allowed the queen to see the mirror of her own pain.

“And have you ever been jilted in love?” A speculative spark gleamed in the queen’s gaze.

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“A wolf in wolf’s clothing,” Belle corrected. The queen’s smirk held a faint inkling of respect. Belle repressed a shudder. Before her was the essence of corrupted innocence and twisted spite, on a stolen throne soaked in blood.

“And . . . how do you propose to carry out your vengeance, child?” Belle knew she’d won free, if only she could give the queen one last bite of a poisoned apple. She feigned nonchalance, shrugging.

“The usual way. With . . . a dagger.” The faint tightening of the queen’s gloved hands on her reins, the slightest of twitches at the corner of her left eye confirmed Belle’s lie, a thing born of the old stories and Rumple himself. One morning, in the companionable coziness of the kitchen she’d brandished a knife in her wet hand. It had slipped, narrowly missing Rumple. _‘No harm done, dearie. It would take a different sort to make any sort of lasting impression.’_  Belle closed her eyes briefly, shutting out the image of his long, mobile face, the anxious flutter of his hands, his quirky humor . . .

“Perhaps, in the fashion of your former lover, we could strike an accord,” the queen drawled. Belle made the approximation of one of Rumple’s extravagant bows, as well as she could on her knees in the dirt.

“I’m listening, your Majesty.”

 xx

Horace had been chosen as her escort to the edges of Rumplestiltskin’s lands. Overweight, wheezing, with breath that smelled of onions and stale ale, Belle would be grateful to part company with him. He had made no overtures toward her, painful or otherwise. Perhaps her status as Rumplestiltskin’s would-be master and former lover was reputation enough.

A week of grueling travel through near-constant rain, then sleet, found them entering Rumplestiltskin’s mountain lands. Belle breathed deeply of the scent of pine and water, her breath misting as she exhaled. After the dusty road and filthy, flea-infested inns, the clean air almost made her dizzy. Her practical leathers were augmented by a fur-lined cloak, a token of the queen’s capricious generosity.

“I can make the remainder of the journey alone, thank you. He might sense one of _her_ agents on his lands,” she said, swinging down from behind Horace. She staggered a little in the mud, her legs aching from riding. Horace regarded her with close-set black eyes, thick lips split in a sneer.

“Good luck, my lady.” The parameters of her deal with the queen stated she must _not_ attempt to kill Rumplestiltskin. Once the dagger was in her possession, she was to return the dagger to the queen. The emphatic squeeze of the queen’s fingers around her heart was enough to ensure obedience, or so that snake of a woman thought. Belle rubbed her chest, reassured by the faint throb of her pulse. The queen had not taken her heart. It already belonged to another.

Belle started off, taking the right fork at the crossroads. She retraced the steps she’d walked lightly at dusk with a basket of straw, quivering with hope and longing. Today she was buoyed by much the same feeling, though her steps were heavy with weariness and a faint dread. What if he turned her away again? She couldn’t bear that. Or worse, what if _he_ kept her as his prisoner, so close but so very far apart? It began to rain in earnest, and as she walked and night fell, the rain became sleet. Her sodden cloak was a frail protection, the saturated hood plastering her hair to her head and directing a tiny rivulet of icy water down her back.

The Dark Castle’s towering gates of black iron loomed before her. She paused at the gate, gloved hands grasping the thick iron bars. Her legs felt like overcooked noodles, she had forgotten what it felt like to be warm. Belle pressed her forehead against the icy bars. A faint static hum, the scent of ozone and smoke that she associated with magic buzzed against her skin. Had he locked the gates against her? An absurd possibility yanked a dry bark of laughter from her hoarse throat. What if he wasn’t _there_?  Sometimes he’d be gone for weeks on his deals.

“Please . . .” she whispered.

A faint groan and the iron gate parted under her touch. Belle crossed the threshold, blinking back tears. Home. She was _home_. That thought gave wings to her feet and she ran up the long gravel lane to the castle, stumbling through puddles and half blinded by sleet. The thick, iron-banded door likewise gave under her gentle touch and Belle’s heart pounded in her chest. So close now! The foyer was deserted, a thick coat of dust covering the round table, the flowers sad and wilting in their vase. Panting, bedraggled and oh so desperate, Belle pushed the hood back. The door swung home with a faint _thump_ , shutting out the storm and the world beyond. Where would he be? In his tower, pouring over his grimoires and potions? In his room, brooding? Spinning?

_I like to watch the wheel. It helps me forget._

Her cloak clinging wetly to her back and calves, Belle staggered toward the great hall. The soft creak of wood was her answer and she peered through the aperture of the cracked door. There he was, back bent in intense absorption, garbed in a scaled leather jerkin over his red silk shirt. Shaking with fear, swaying with exhaustion and dizzy with hope, Belle sort of . . . _fell_ into the room, breaking her fall on the tall back of his chair.

“Rum.” Her voice emerged in a hoarse croak, a dumb monosyllable when she’d prepared elegant speeches on love and forgiveness. He stilled, deft, black-taloned fingers poised in rare, perfect immobility. Slowly, eternally slowly, he turned and beheld her. His face: that beloved face that haunted every dream and nightmare, narrow and sculpted, the thin mouth, the proud nose, grey-green scales. Hungrily she devoured the details her mind forgot, anything but see the horrid blankness in his expression, his distant hazel eyes.

 He snapped his fingers, and lurid purple smoke shivered over her. Belle coughed, clinging to the chair. Surely he wouldn’t banish her so quickl—the smoke cleared and she was in the same place sans her cloak, blinking at him in confusion. Some of the tension eased from his straight, unbending form and a languid smile curled his mouth, a sleepy heat warmed his gaze. Several of his quick, dancing steps and he stood on the rug beside the roaring fire.

“Ah, my favorite. The adventurer makes her way home. Come here to me.” Nonplussed, Belle licked her lips and walked toward him, dimly conscious of the trail of water and mud in her wake.

“Rumple,” she breathed, a nervous hand coming to rest on his forearm. A violent shudder raced through him, a black oath erupting from his lips.

“You’re real? _Belle_?” he asked, eyes wide and quivering.

“Yes, what did you think?” she demanded, her sharpness covering her fear, “I . . . I came back.” When he only stared, unfathomable and terrifyingly still, Belle plunged on, bolting like a nervous filly.

“I missed you. I wanted to say that I . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you. I love you.” A soft sound escaped him, part groan and something that had once resembled her name. The next instant she was enveloped in a crushing embrace, enveloped by his scent of leather, magic and a spicy, masculine smell. She clung, uncaring of the rough scales pressed against her cheek, the tickle of his wild curling hair on her nose. No, she needed to be closer, she needed more touch, more of the miracle of his heartbeat under her ear.

“Yes. Oh Belle, I love you. I love you too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, forgive me.” The words shattered her. Her stubborn bravery, her hope and pain and longing, the long miles, the queen’s hand squeezing her heart, all rose in a great wave and shattered her against the rocks of his fearful, tender, beautiful love. Sobs emerged from the deepest part of her soul.

“Of . . . of course I forgive you. I was so . . . so afraid you’d turn m-me away.” Belle turned her face into his neck, nuzzling the textured skin.

“Let me stay. Please.”

“Oh Belle, oh love, of course you can stay. I promise,” he said, and everyone knew that Rumplestiltskin kept his word. 

Rumple held her, crooning nonsense in her ear, fluttering fingers stroking her heaving shoulders and back as she wept part in relief, part in purging her bottled worries. Her knees buckled and with a cloud of purple smoke, Rum led her back to a wide cushioned chair. He sat and drew her to his lap with playful pat on his knee. Belle gave a soggy giggle and nestled sideways on his lap, draping her legs over the arm of the chair—muddy boots and all. He didn’t seem to mind, drawing her head to rest beneath his chin. Belle pecked a shy kiss on that tantalizing spot at the base of his corded throat as the last of her tears ebbed.

 “Where did you go, Belle?” he asked gently. Her story tumbled free in fits and spurts, of a love-struck dwarf, the journey to find the Yoaguai, and then encountering the queen. She felt his anger burn in his tightening grip, the dark promise of retribution in the snarl he wore.

“She isn’t worth it, love. Leave her,” Belle said tiredly.

“She will keep. For now.” He bit the words out. Belle bit her lip, debating her next question.

“The queen seemed to think there was a  . . . a weapon linked to you. Is that . . . is that possible?” she asked. Suddenly, he looked as if he felt each one of his many decades.

“Later, love. I owe you that story and more.”  

Belle nodded and she sat, feeling drained and almost pleasantly drowsy. His dancing fingers stroked her arm, her shoulder, the side of her neck. Gently, they plucked the wet snarl of ribbon from her hair, the gentle scrape of his nails on her scalp pulling a soft, hungry cry between the subsiding sobs. He tucked his chin to look her in the eye, nervously licking his lips. Belle followed that movement with intense interest, a longing as acute as hunger. His smile was a broken thing, thin and sad and so hopeful it nearly broke her heart all over again.

“I need my power, love. To find someone important.” Comprehension dawned.

“Your son. He’s alive? After all this time?” His grip tightened briefly.

“He’s alive,” Rumple breathed in a fierce undertone, “Just lost. I must find him.”

For a moment there was a cozy silence, broken only by the sleet lashing against the uncovered windows and crackle and murmur of the fire. With some squirming, Belle shucked off her gloves and knife belt, and toed out of her boots. When she subsided, watching the fire burnish his scales to gold, she whispered: “I’m afraid.” Rumple’s face creased in frown, his throat flexing as he swallowed.

“Of what? Of . . . me?”

“Of a sort,” she blurted, “I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake. I’m afraid I’ll kiss you and you’ll hate me.” Rumple pressed a tentative, air-soft kiss to her temple.

“Impossible. I could never hate you. We . . . we simply need to be . . . careful.” The last words were said with the faintest silvery underlining, hinting at all manner of delicious depravity. Belle shivered under his fixed gaze, his stiff, careful posture. When he made no move to touch her, Belle gnawed on her lower lip. She was filthy, tired, and their reunion was so new, so fragile, but _gods_ , she _wanted_ him more than her next breath. She wanted his heat, his touch, all of his passionate devotion and careful tenderness lavished on her, and likewise, she would _worship_ him.

“Perhaps . . . perhaps I should bathe,” she said with a wobbling smile. Something tightened in his expression, a horrible sadness filling his eyes. Plucking up the tattered remains of her bravery, she cupped his cheek.

“Care to join me?”

 xx

The bathtub was a lavish thing of porcelain, large enough to fit four people and chased with gold along the rim and at each of its taloned feet. Steam danced on the surface, a small dish floated in the center, complete with vials of oils and soaps, combs and cloths.

“It looks wonderful, Rumple,” Belle said, her voice echoing off the walls. She turned to face him, grasping his hands. She had forsaken her adventurer’s leathers for a robe of what Rumple called spidersilk, creamy white, soft, and incredibly warm. Belle kissed his cheek, seeing a rash of pink skin appear briefly after the press of her lips. True Love. The thought made her giddy, ebullient. She saw the root of his hesitancy and spoke to it: “I think you’re beautiful.” His twittering giggle spoke of his discomfort.

“We should get your eyes checked, love,” he drawled, tapping her nose in an indulgent gesture. Belle stepped closer, his shyness oddly putting her more at ease.

“I have excellent eyesight and always have, Rumplestiltskin. I love _you_ , all of you. Your wild curls.” She sank her hands into his hair, it was as soft as she imagined, and so warm. 

“Your eyes, they look like a forest at twilight, all secrets and danger. Your nose is very distinguished,” she kissed his nose, a grazing, ticklish caress that had him snorting. Something lurked in his gaze that hurt her heart, wariness, but also a soul-deep _want_. Wanting to be wanted, to be loved and desired for himself.

“And I suppose you’re partial to reptiles too? Scales and claws?” he said harshly, scowling.

Belle’s lips curved. She leaned close to whisper in his ear: “Let me put it this way: when I lived here before, and I touched myself at night, it was your hands I thought of. It was your body I wanted above mine.” With a snarl, Rumple flung his arms around her. A dizzying whirl of purple smoke and they were in the bedroom that had been hers, bouncing slightly on the bed. A fire crumbled into a bed of red coals in the grate, candles burst aflame at a gesture from Rumple.

“What about the bath?” she said, her breath and heartbeat quickening. Rumple looked absolutely predatory braced over her, eyes half hidden by his hair and panting, his maligned black-taloned fingers gnarled in the bedclothes at either side of her.

“You cannot tell me such filthy, delicious things and not expect me to act on them, Belle.” She giggled, linking her arms around his neck.

“Kind of the point, Rumple.” He pressed his forehead to hers, hair falling forward to shield their faces under its veil.

“What do you know of this, love?” he asked.

“I read,” she said softly, biting her lip. His toothy smile revealed the stained and mossy teeth of a fearsome beast, but his kiss to her forehead was a lover’s. He settled over her, pressed heart to heart, and thigh to thigh. The hard shape of his arousal against her drew a whimper from her.

“Hmm, I must remember to keep better tabs on my library,” he teased. Belle kissed his chin, the corner of his mouth.

“I would like a . . . practical demonstration. For a better understanding of the subject matter, I mean,” she said, unable to master her grin. She felt the rumble of his chuckle deep in his chest.

“Of course. Mastery of a subject requires very thorough research,” he growled in her ear. His breath was marvelous and warm against her skin—she yelped as he nipped her earlobe.

“Oh yes. Rumple, please,” she said, in throaty entreaty.

The giddy frisson of their playful banter buoyed the soul-searing lust she felt, but soon their frantic, honest passion won out. She fumbled with the laces of his scaled jerkin. With a growl, he shucked off the garment. Belle slipped her hand beneath the warm silk of his shirt to feel the shape of his torso, the throb of his heart against her palm, eliciting a soft sound from him. He pressed his hand over hers above his heart.

“Yours. Yours, Belle,” he breathed and gods help her, there was a dizzying, painful moment when she almost chased those beautiful words with a kiss on his mouth. She turned aside at the last instant, kissing a path to his ear.

“Mine. And I’m yours, Rumple. Only yours.”  He groaned above her, shunting his hips against hers. Heat pooled between her thighs, an ache for _him_. Rumple wove magic into each press of his lips, lavishing her throat with hot, open-mouthed kisses and gentle nips that sent fire arcing through her nerves. He placed a hand on her belly and she felt a tingle shoot through her.

“Only pleasure between us tonight, love,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She drew him down to lavish kisses on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. His fingers sought the belt of her robe, teasing it apart gently. All frantic movement stilled as he beheld her nakedness.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he said, breathless with sincerity.

Glittering gold in the candlelight, his blood red silk shirt hanging loose, hair tousled and eyes wild, he was beautiful too.

“So are you, Rumple,” Belle leaned up, smoothing her hands up his lean belly to touch the pert buds of his nipples. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, a sound she would have mistook for pain if not for his guiding fingers around hers plucking at them again. Entranced by how beautifully debauched he looked half-dressed and guiding her in pleasuring him, Belle sought the laces of his distracting leather trousers. It snapped him from the haze of pleasure, and he lunged, pinning her beneath him.

“Ah ah, love. Ladies first,” he said, something of the imp’s teasing in his cajoling gesture. It was a man’s honest desire that guided him to her breasts with their own aching peaks. A soft lick had her gasping, and when his lips curled around her nipple she arched beneath him, wild with the teasing pleasure, plucking an invisible string of sensation in her, linking breast to loins. The sound of his greedy suckling was almost obscene, as were the cries he wrung from her. His fingers sought the center of her ache, a rough knuckle kneading the swollen bud at the apex of her sex.

“Rum . . . Rumple,” Belle gasped, her voice a high whine as he guided her toward that blinding peak. One finger eased inside, then two, bathed in the evidence of her desire, accompanied by the tireless rubbing of her pearl. Her breathing shortened, ragged and pleading in her own ears, her hands scrabbled at his back and—pleasure burst from her under his efforts, overwhelming and perfect. Rumple rose above her as she sank back to earth, wearing a soft, tender look.

“My Belle, my beautiful love,” he purred, butting her cheek with his nose like an animal nuzzling its mate. Belle stirred herself from her blissful languor. As wonderful as it was, his caresses did not answer the deeper ache, the hunger for union.

“Help me with these,” she breathed against his lips, fingers finding the laces of his trousers, “I want you, Rum. Please.” Rumple whimpered, a terse swipe his hand magically divesting him of trousers and laced boots. To her naïve eyes, his cock looked formidable, long, smooth, and hard. Her Rumplestiltskin promised only pleasure, and what bridegroom could boast that?

“Come here to me,” she whispered, pulling him down atop her, arching her hips in restless invitation. Face taut with concentration and desire, Rumple shunted his hips to hers, easing within her with slow, short strokes. Belle wrapped her legs around his hips, welcoming him with reckless joy. Once he was fully seated, they paused to breathe, reveling in their joining. Rumple pressed his fingers over her mouth, musky and damp with her juices, and kissed the backs of his fingers. Murmuring a low sound of approval, she parted her lips, suckling and licking at his fingers. His tongue darted between his fingers to touch hers and she whimpered, bucking her hips.

“Belle,” he whispered, lifting himself up to rest on his elbows, cupping her head between his hands. His thrusts began as a gentle rocking and Belle struggled to breathe around the wondrous sensations coursing through her. Secret inner muscle clasping his hard length, joined in the most intimate fashion. The texture of his scaled skin against hers, slicked by a fine dew of sweat, the corded muscle of his back moving under her hands. Eye to eye, heart to heart, breathing the same air.

The pace quickened from a languid surge to something deeper, harder. Drowning in hot pleasure and his watchful, unblinking gaze, Belle dissolved into clenching, mindless bliss, smothering her cry by biting his shoulder. Rumple snarled above her, fingers biting hard into her hips as he thrust home once more and found his release. Belle shivered, a long shudder of arousal racing through her as she felt his seed fill her.

In the damp, panting aftermath, Belle set to mapping the terrain of his skin with her hands and lips. Long, soothing strokes down his back and buttocks, lazy, dragging kisses at his temple and brow, lips tingling with the ridged texture and the tang of sweat. Rumple stirred himself, lifting up enough to glare down his nose at her. He glanced at the ring of indentations made by her teeth on his shoulder and lifted a brow.

“Sorry,” she whispered, smoothing away the strands of hair that clung to his sweaty cheeks.

“I quite like it, Belle. A wolf in wolf’s clothing indeed,” he purred. Belle laughed and sighed with soul-deep contentment. The adventurer had made her way home.                     

**Author's Note:**

> Blame screwballninja for this fic. She inspired me.


End file.
